Made of Stars
by occludes
Summary: Mum says, "You'll make your family proud." Regulus wants to. Desperately. But there's an edge to her tone that makes her assurance sound more like a threat.
1. part 1: the train

Sirius helps him pack the night before his first day at Hogwarts. All of Regulus' books, his new wand, robes, parchment, quills, ink... Sirius has done this for two years now, going into his third, so he knows the tricks to making certain nothing gets lost, how to wrap his quills so the nubs don't snap in transit, and how to ensure the ink bottle doesn't open or break to make a mess of his luggage. Mum has laid out green and silver attire for his first day, and Regulus catches Sirius glancing at it now and again.

When they're dropped off at the station the next morning, Mum kisses his forehead, smoothes his hair—which is far neater, and shorter, than his brother's—and says, "You'll make your family proud."

Regulus wants to. Desperately.

But there's an edge to her tone that makes her assurance sound more like a threat.

_Don't let us down, Regulus. Not like your brother did._

He has the strongest urge to take hold of Sirius' hand as they board. He doesn't because he refuses to be seen as some sort of _child_. But also because Sirius says, "See you at school," ruffles his hair, and leaves him to find his friends. Friends Regulus has heard about but has not met, because one of them is some mudblood boy his parents would never permit into the house, so Sirius never brings any of his friends by. In fact, he was hardly home all summer, in favor of visiting his Gryffindor companions.

(At first, he wrote Regulus every day. Eventually, the owls got fewer and further between, then practically ceased all together.)

He's alone on the train and most of the compartments are already full. The train leaves the station before Regulus finds a compartment near the end with only one occupant—a boy whose robes look a touch too shabby, whose dark hair is in need of a proper cut and tending to, and who doesn't even look up when Regulus slides open the door. He's older than Regulus. His brother's age, perhaps. An upperclassman, someone to be spoken to as a superior rather than an equal. So Regulus lingers in the entryway, uncertain, before inclining his chin and willing his voice steady.

"May I sit here?"

The boy looks up, at first uninterested, then his dark eyes linger on Regulus' green and silver tie. He had honestly thought to wear something different, something neutral, but his mother had conveniently made sure nothing else was available. Eventually he mumbles, "Do what you want," and shoves his nose back into his book.

Regulus relaxes. He slides into the compartment, having to stretch to place his baggage into the rack over his head. The steady sway of the train makes it difficult not to topple right over, but he manages it and sinks into his seat. His companion is reading a Potions book that looks a little worse for wear. Second-hand, like. It makes Regulus a little self-conscious; all of his things are brand new and of the highest quality. Nothing less for a son of the Noble House of Black.

The silence pulls and prods at him as the scenery drags by out the window in blurred greys and browns and greens. He's too used to being around Sirius, who can talk for hours. Or even Kreacher, who knows Regulus gets lonely and will talk just to give him something to listen to.

"Are you a third year?" he finally works up the nerve to ask.

The boy glances up again, looking somewhere between perplexed and perturbed at being bothered again. "Pardon?"

Regulus points to the book in his hands. "Third year Potions. And Slytherin?" Because he's wearing the same colors as Regulus. Really, it's the only splash of colour on him. Everything else is black and white, black and white. His eyes included.

"And you're a first year," he responds coolly. "You're wearing house colours. Confident of where you'll be sorted, then?"

_No_, Regulus thinks. He isn't sure of anything. Because his family was positive Sirius would end up in Slytherin, like every other Black before him, and now that Sirius has failed the task it's up to Regulus and he doesn't know where he wants to be, what he wants to do. He wants to be with his brother, wants to make his parents proud. But what pleases one always displeases the other.

But his mother wouldn't like such a response, and Regulus is desperate to go into school with at least one person aside from Sirius who might be his friend. So he says with feigned confidence and casualty, "Of course." And he offers out his hand without reservation. "What's your name?"

A faint, thoughtful frown has creased the other boy's brow; he eyes Regulus' hand like he's expecting it to bite, but eventually, slowly, takes it. "Snape. Severus Snape."

"Snape," he repeats, a slim smile pulling at his mouth. "Regulus Black. A pleasure."

Just like that, Snape jerks his hand away as though burned. His eyes narrow. "Black, you said."

"That's right."

"You've an older sibling."

"I do." This, Regulus says with pride, because Sirius is someone he admires—Gryffindor or not. "He's a third year, like you. Do you know him?"

"Yes." Everything about Snape's demeanor has gone frigid and for the first time, Regulus notices how sharp his features are, how piercing his eyes, and it makes him uncomfortable, leaves him wishing he'd not been so foolish as to open his mouth about his brother. Snape says nothing further. He buries his face in his book and for the remainder of the trip they ride in uncomfortable, icy silence.

Regulus is never so happy as when the train rolls into the station. Snape rises, smooth and silent, snatches his things and is out the door before Regulus knows what's happened. He's slower about fetching his own belongings, making mental note to ask Sirius about it later. It wouldn't surprise him that his brother has enemies at school. But he curses his luck that it would be the one person he happened to sit with on the train.

Outside, the night air is biting and thick and cloudy. Prefects shout and gesture, herding students about in the fog. In the chaos Regulus only briefly catches sight of his brother parading along and laughing with three boys Regulus assumes to be his infamous friends. He tries to catch Sirius' eye, hoping for a smile, a wave, some sort of acknowledgment.

Then they're gone in the crowd, and Regulus is ushered off with the other skittish, anxious first-years. But he tries to reassure himself Sirius was looking for him, too.


	2. part 2: the sorting

Regulus spots Narcissa as he's brought into the hall. It's the first time he's ever seen her in Hogwarts robes, and they suit her nicer than he thought they would. His cousin seems to have been searching him out, because when her eyes fall on his face, she smiles.

Narcissa is prettier than many of the other Black women, Regulus thinks. There is something calmer, softer about her features. Granted, compared to Bellatrix, it could be said anyone would appear soft and calm. He's grateful Bellatrix graduated two years ago. Saddened that Narcissa only has two years left herself.

But seeing her, Regulus has all the more reason to keep his chin held high and his shoulders squared, refusing to look nervous or overly excited, like the boy to his right does, who keeps breathing—noisily—through his mouth and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Regulus is a Black and he is noble and composed and _proud_ and...

"Regulus Black."

...he's being summoned.

To the front of the hall he goes, taking a seat on the stool, grateful he doesn't have to practically climb the bloody thing like others have had to because the men in his family are never short and already, Regulus is a bit on the tall side for his age.

The Sorting Hat smells of dust and time and old things, worn fabric and a bit of sweat, like it needs to be given to Kreacher for a good scrubbing. In fact, its gravelly voice reminds him a little of Kreacher, makes him homesick.

Except then Regulus catches Sirius watching him from the Gryffindor table and he tries to straighten up, to vanish any trace of uncertainty or fright from his face. Sirius' expression is so calm, so expectant, and tinged with something Regulus does not recognize and therefore cannot place but it makes his stomach twist all up in lumpy knots all the same.

"Another Black," the Hat rumbles. "I've placed many a Black family member in Slytherin, you know."

He feels foolish, talking to a Hat, but Regulus murmurs so soft his mouth scarcely moves, "I know."

"But your brother, he went elsewhere, did he not? Gryffindor."

"He did."

"And where is it little Regulus Black wishes to go?"

Regulus' heart stops. Just...stops. He can't breathe. Would the hat truly make him choose? Between Slytherin—his parents, his cousins—and Gryffindor—his _brother_?

And at first he thinks _Sirius Sirius Sirius I just want to be with—_

Then he hears his mother's voice, shrieking until the walls tremble and Regulus cowers in his room with Kreacher trying to sooth him, as Mum calls Sirius a blood-traitor, a disgrace to the family, _how could you run around with a bunch of mudbloods, letting them place you in that house how dare you how dare you _and Sirius is calm, completely calm, which tells Regulus he's so far _beyond_ angry and he just...

"Calm yourself," the Hat says. Before Regulus can say anything at all, it shouts to the waiting students, "Slytherin!"

The Hat is removed. Regulus rises. The Slytherin table give him bright smiles because, yes, the Black family _belongs _there. Narcissa has scooted over to make room for him, applauding, yet looking as though _yes of course, I had no doubts_. Even the boy from the train, Snape, seems to have thawed some.

But as he crosses the room, Regulus' heart won't stop thundering in his ears, and Sirius won't look at him anymore.


	3. part 3: the meeting

Lucius Malfoy is something fantastic, Regulus quickly decides. He's elegant and beautiful and, like his own family, comes from a long line of proud and noble people—all Slytherins. Narcissa also seems to rather fancy him. Something she doesn't confirm nor deny when Regulus asks her of it, but there's a small, thin smile that pulls at her mouth as she turns away, and Regulus knows he's right.

Snape's two friends are different.

Regulus isn't even sure if they're _friends_, really. Snape seems to hang around them, or they seem to hang around Snape, whatever, but there's a distance, a gap, Regulus can sense there so he isn't sure what to make of it...other than that he does not like them.

Mulciber is tall and nicely muscled, with strong features and dark hair and eyes and a leering smile that could make babies cry. He has a comment full of wit and laced with venom to anything and everything. Avery feels just as dangerous, but in a different way. He's quieter, slighter and shorter, with hair that isn't quite red enough to have him mistaken for a Weasley despite the splash of freckles across his skin. It isn't so much _what_ he says that unsettles Regulus so much as the deep intensity of his eyes, like he's staring right through everything and everyone, watching how they tick.

Mulciber and Avery are the variety of friends who can finish one another's sentences, who seem to communicate without saying anything at all but merely exchanging a look (such as they do when Regulus is first introduced to him). Even if Regulus dislikes them, he envies their closeness.

"Another Black," Mulciber drawls. "Decided not to join your traitor brother in Gryffindor, then?"

Regulus' insides begin to knot up. "This is where the Sorting Hat placed me, so this is where I belong."

Mulciber gives him a long, calculating look like a snake about to swallow a mouse whole. Then he snickers and bumps his shoulder into Avery's. A silent _let's get out of here_, as they both turn to leave. "We'll see about that."

"Ignore them," Snape says, once they're alone, from his side of the room. His things have already been put away. "They'll find someone else to bother if they can't get a rise out of you."

"As though they could." Regulus tries to shrug off the sudden cold that's settled over him and resumes unpacking. Just as Sirius promised, everything has arrived intact thanks to his help.

Following lunch, Regulus waits just outside the great hall for the better part of an hour for his brother to emerge. Of course Sirius isn't alone; his three friends are in tow. If it weren't for the fact that the short one drops a pasty he was eating and they all stop while he laments the loss of it, Sirius would have walked right on by without even noticing Regulus.

"Hello, baby brother," he says, and his tone is bright but his eyes are dark and Regulus just wants to latch onto him and not let go and apologize even if he hasn't a clue what for. The other three boys are watching him quite curiously and Regulus wishes he'd waited until Sirius was alone.

"Hello." He straightens up, feeling small and exposed to their inquisitive stares.

"Gentlemen, this would be my brother, Regulus." Sirius gestures with a flourish. "Regulus, this would be James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus Lupin. The three greatest blokes in the entire school—aside from myself."

Potter steps forward and offers a hand with a grin a mile wide. Instantly, he reminds Regulus of Sirius, all overconfidence and bravado and rule-breaking. His glasses are a little crooked and his hair is in need of a brushing, though something about the messiness of it looks intentional. Regulus takes his hand and shakes it, followed by Pettigrew's, whose palm is clammy and a bit crumbly from the food he's been eating. Ever the polite one, Regulus is discreet about wiping his hand off on his robes and tries not to pull a face.

But then there's Lupin. Up close, there are things Regulus notices he hadn't from a distance. The scars on the boy's face, the dark circles beneath his eyes as though he never sleeps, how shabbily dressed he is...

Regulus knows, without a doubt, this is the mudblood his mother threw such a fit over.

Lupin offers his hand and his smile is warmer, sincerer, than that of the others. Regulus takes it so reluctantly, and only because Sirius is staring a hole right through him, but it takes him long enough that disappointment registers on Sirius' face. If Lupin notices the hesitance, or how quick Regulus is to pull his hand away, it does not show.

"A pleasure," Lupin says.

Regulus forces his throat to cooperate. "Indeed." Then he turns his attention back to his brother with the intention of asking if perhaps Sirius would show him around. He's taken the group tour with one of the Slytherin prefects, but it hardly covered everything and of course his brother would know all the best places to go.

"Sirius, I—"

Sirius inclines his head. "Come on, mates. We've got things to get to, yeah? A whole summer to catch up on. Regulus, you ought to rest up before your first classes tomorrow."

Something not unlike anger burns hot under Regulus' skin; frothing, hurtful anger at being dismissed so casually, and for _these_ people. A summer to catch up on? Sirius _spent _most of his summer with his friends, while Regulus remained left behind under their mother's close scrutiny and endless lectures and the house elf's feeble attempts at keeping Regulus entertained.

They turn to leave. Regulus calls out, "Sirius," and when his brother glances back inquiringly, "my ink bottle. It broke after all."

A small frown tugs at Sirius' face. "Did it? That's odd. I double and triple wrapped it up. Well, better luck next year, I suppose." And then he's gone, moving down the halls and away away away while Regulus is left behind again.

He returns to the Slytherin common rooms, fetches the bottle of ink from his trunk, and shatters it on the floor.


	4. part 4: the game

A thin layer of frost makes the grass of the Quidditch field shimmer white as the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw players huff and puff their way to its center. Regulus lingers at the end of the Slytherin box, searching for an empty seat. It's disconcerting. He would've thought, after a few days, he would have found his place within his house. Would have fit in, would have _made _a spot. One that should rightfully be his.

Yet, it's like this everywhere. Classes, mealtimes, in the halls. Regulus is always lingering, watching, waiting, trying to find the best opportunity to slip into the crowd and pretend he belongs.

"Oi, Black! Sit down already," Rosier calls, lifting his hand in a wave. Regulus inwardly grimaces at the few looks he gets, but picks his way past the other Slytherins to gratefully have a seat in the place Rosier was kind enough to make for him. Regulus would think something of it, but Rosier is kind to most people within their house. If you were on his bad side, you'd obviously done something very, very wrong. "Your first game, isn't it?" he asks with a grin.

"It is," Regulus agrees. It's the first Quidditch match of the year, the first time Regulus has ever seen it played in person. Mum and Dad thought the Black family too important to mess around with such sporting events, so even his exposure to it at home was limited to what little Sirius told him.

Which is a shame, he thinks, as the Snitch is released and the Quaffle is tossed into play. It's a fascinating sort of event, the blur of house colors and robes zipping by and there is so much going on at once, it's difficult to know where to look. He's grateful when Rosier leans in and explains the rules. Things Regulus thinks Sirius has told him once, but he was too young to properly grasp. Sirius himself was never largely interested in Quidditch—not until Potter started playing for Gryffindor, anyway.

"You're on the team, aren't you?" Regulus thinks to ask. "You and Wilkes?"

Rosier straightens up proudly. "Aye, that I am. Not this grumpy bloke, though; he'd rather be caught in the girls loo than be on that field. He only comes 'cause his alternative is sitting in the dungeons with whatever wankers didn't want to brave the cold."

From Rosier's other side, Wilkes mutters, "Bollocks," while looking rather disinterested in the game.

Regulus listens, but his eyes aren't on Rosier. They aren't even on the game anymore. He squints at the box across the field of Gryffindor students, spotting Sirius only because he's sitting right up front, between Pettigrew and the mudblood. Now and again, he stands up, hands in the air, and cheers louder than all the rest. Not even for his team, but for _Potter_. Every time, Lupin gently tries to tug him back down to keep from making such a scene.

"You listening, Black?"

Spine stiffening, Regulus tears his gaze away from Sirius. "I... Sorry, what?"

Rosier lifts his eyebrows. "I was asking if you had an interest in being on the team. Always looking for fresh blood."

From the bench behind them, Avery leans between them. "And you _will_ bleed on the field. A lot." He grunts as Rosier shoves a hand in his face and pushes him back.

"Ignore him."

Regulus looks back out over the game. Potter, whether Regulus wants to admit it or not, is quite the talented Chaser, and even some of the Slytherin girls titter and grin silly-like to themselves when he zips past, casting a charming grin and a wicked wink as he goes. All the while, his brother is cheering Potter on during a game he couldn't care less about.

After the Gryffindors have claimed their victory and everyone is returning to their houses, Regulus catches Rosier by the elbow and asks, "Where do I sign up?"

Rosier opens his mouth, closes it, rubs the back of his neck. "Well, you can try out whenever you want. But..."

"But?"

"Just as a warning. First years, yeah? They don't tend to make the team. Still new to flying and whatnot."

Regulus' expression darkens. "I can handle it."

A thoughtful frown tugs at Rosier's face. "Right, right. I did tell you that you ought to, didn't I? Come by the field tomorrow afternoon during our practice, and we'll see how you do."


	5. part 5: the choice

There is a pair of second years in the astronomy tower when Regulus arrives. First year or no, he chases them off with nothing more than a sharp glare and the rigid, intimidating stance only a member of the Black family can pull off. Flustered, the couple straightens their robes and scoot down the stairs without a word, leaving Regulus alone.

Since his rather dismal attempt at trying out for Quidditch a few months back (wherein a Bludger was able to not only hit him, but knock him clear off his broom; he's lucky nothing was broken—save for his pride), he has not slept well. The Slytherin dorms are cold and drafty even if the hearth is always burning bright and crackling. He finds his mind wandering to what it might be like in the Gryffindor rooms, who Sirius' bed is next to, if he's sleeping at this exact moment or staring up at the ceiling, unable to drift off, as he so often did at home when Regulus would crawl into his bed at night.

Not that the tower is any warmer than the dungeons. Regulus huddles in his pajamas and robe, hugging himself, staring out over the grounds far below. From here he can see the stars with beautiful clarity, and he knows every constellation and its position in the sky. Oddly enough, his own namesake is the one he always has the hardest time locating, but Sirius' is quite prominent, and Regulus' eyes are always drawn to it like—

"What're you doing up here?"

Regulus stiffens and turns. Sirius is still in his school robes, standing at the top of the stairs with his head cocked. His hair is so carelessly tousled. Regulus wants to reach up and smooth it. Despite his heart hammering away, he responds coolly, "I could ask you the same thing."

"Just out and about." Sirius pockets his hands and meanders over, craning his neck to peer up at the sky. Regulus is certain this is the first time they've been alone since school started. He resists the urge to reach for him, to tuck himself against Sirius' side and hide there where the world is safer and warmer and familiar. Too much has changed in such a short period of time and he hates it.

Regulus swallows hard past a dry throat. "Trouble sleeping?"

"Always." Sirius flashes him a fleeting smile. "Peter snores, you see. Quite bothersome."

"I imagine it would be," he says, voice tightening because of course...of _course_, the conversation always comes back to his friends. "Doesn't it make you miss home?"

Sirius groans. "Merlin, no! I would deal with Peter's snoring and James' sleep-talking for the rest of my life if it meant not having to go home. Nothing there but Mum and her shouting to keep me up all bloody hours of the night."

It's a slap to the face. _Nothing there. _Once upon a time, Regulus thinks, _him _being there was all Sirius needed.

Regulus squares his shoulders, tugs his robe tighter around himself, and turns away to leave. Sirius catches him by the elbow.

"Hey, what's your problem?"

"Nothing. I don't... I... _Every_thing." Regulus jerks away from his brother's grasp. "I hate it here. I want to go home."

The look his brother gives him is a patient one. "You don't mean that. You got all your mates here, don't you?"

Regulus whirls on him. "Who? Avery and Mulciber? When they aren't busy shoving me into walls or banishing my text books to Merlin knows where? Or Narcissa, who is far too busy fawning over that Malfoy boy to notice much of anyone. Perhaps you mean Snape. I daresay he keeps his distance from me because he hates you. In fact, dear brother, most of Slytherin wants nothing to do with me..._because of you_."

Sirius' expression doesn't change. It stays infuriatingly the same. Indifferent. Regulus hates that, too. He wants his brother to be upset, to be angry, to grab him again or shove him or _something_ to show he's feelinganything at all. "Obviously," he says slowly, "you chose the wrong house. But I could have told you that."

There it is. The reason Sirius has been so hurtful and cold to him. Regulus knew, of course. How could he not? But the admission laid out in plain view takes his breath away and makes his chest tighten and ache.

"You think I _chose_ Slytherin? Nobody _chooses_ their house." He doesn't want this conversation. He wants to leave. He wants to hurry back down to the dungeons and crawl into bed and pretend none of this happened.

Sirius grabs him the moment he tries to turn away again, catching Regulus' arms, shoving him back against the railing. Regulus tenses, spine stiffening, because he doesn't like having his back exposed to open air and an endless drop into oblivion stretching out below. If Sirius were to let go, if he were to _push_, just a little, Regulus isn't sure he could catch himself before going over.

"Everyone has a choice," Sirius growls. "_I_ bloody well chose. The hat wanted me in Slytherin, and I refused until he placed me elsewhere. I didn't care where he put me, so long as it wasn't there. The hat—"

"It didn't even give me a—"

Sirius raises his voice, grip tightening. "—the hat takes your preference into consideration."

The tower falls silent save for Regulus' pulse pounding in his ears. He's clutching at Sirius' shirt so tightly, afraid of being let go, afraid of falling. Afraid Sirius would _let _him. His voice wavers. "So you would ignore me because of the house I ended up in."

"The house you _chose_, Regulus." Sirius' hands ease their grip, slide up his arms, his shoulders, cupping Regulus' cheeks. They're warm and large and Regulus shudders because he can feel Sirius' breath against his face, their foreheads touching. "If you had _truly _wanted to be in Gryffindor with me, the hat would have let you."

Regulus' throat moves in an attempt to swallow the lump in it, and it takes everything to keep quiet and steady. "What do you want from me, Sirius?"

"I should be the one asking that." Sirius' voice is so low and soft and makes Regulus think of all the nights back home, with Sirius whispering stories in his ear to lull him to sleep. "What do _you _want?"

"I want..." There are many things Regulus wants. Such as Sirius' eyes to never leave his. Or for his hands to stay right where they are because they make every inch of his body warm and his insides melty and it's perfect, agonizingly _perfect_. But he has no answer. He wants, he wants, he _wants_, but he doesn't know how to untangle and translate feelings into words so that Sirius will understand. "_Please_," is all he says, and it comes out more as a strangled whine than anything else.

For a brief second, Sirius traces the pad of his thumb along Regulus' bottom lip. Only a second, before he's pulling away, leaving Regulus grasping the railing to keep from falling.

"When you figure it out, you let me know."


	6. part 6: the letters

"You've scarcely touched your food," Mum says, and pretends not to know why despite that Regulus has spent all of supper staring at the seat where Sirius should be but isn't.

He picks at his vegetables, pushing them aimlessly about his plate. "Sorry. Not much hungry."

"You lost weight at school," she says, eyeing him. "Are they feeding you proper?"

"They feed us fine, Mum. Just lacking an appetite is all." When she continues to study him, he sighs, sets his fork aside and pushes his chair back. Not asking to be excused although he should, because he doesn't care if he's excused or not. He can't stand sitting at the table any longer with Sirius' absence staring them both in the face, while his mother acts like she doesn't notice.

Sirius did come home for the summer. Briefly. Two weeks was all he lasted before a shouting match occurred that had him grabbing a bag of things and stomping out of the house. Regulus wasn't home when it happened otherwise he would have tried to calm the pair of them, for no reason other than to keep his brother here. They'd had plans. Actual _plans_ to do something together for the first time since school started and it was going to be just them: Regulus and Sirius. The way things were supposed to be.

Instead, Regulus has spent his time alone in his room, ignoring his parents, speaking little even to Kreacher, who he hears pacing outside Regulus' room sometimes, mumbling worriedly to himself. He waits for Sirius to get over it and come home, but it's been a month and he hasn't.

Mum says nothing as he leaves the kitchen and disappears upstairs. While at school, he'd thought he missed his home, his own room, his own belongings, the privacy in which the house offers him. But now that he's here and Sirius is not, he thinks what he's truly missed has nothing to do with his physical location or privacy or his stupid room. Putting up with the idiots at school was worth it for an occasional grin or kind word from his brother, however rare such things were.

Regulus sits at his desk and pulls out a fresh piece of parchment, his quill, and ink, in order to write:

_Sirius,_

_You've left Mum in quite a state. She's all over pretending not to care you aren't here, but I know she does. It's her pride, is all. We Blacks are stubborn creatures. I'm sure if you came home and spoke with her, she misses you enough that she'd listen. _

_Summer isn't the same without you._

_Best,_

_Regulus_

He instructs his owl to find Sirius somewhere around the neighborhood he knows the Potters live in. It's the most likely place for Sirius to have gone, after all. Afterwards, he stares at another blank sheet of parchment and laments the fact he has no one else to write to.

Not entirely true. He supposes he could write to Rosier, or to Snape. The closest thing he has to allies, since he doesn't exactly have _friends_. But Snape is likely to ask him why he's writing at all and Rosier would undoubtedly write back with something friendly and polite, but only because _Rosier _is friendly and polite and not because he _means_ it.

In the end, he writes to Snape because he'd rather be rejected outright than play a guessing game of whether or not Rosier actually cares to speak to him. He's never written to anyone but his family members before, and fumbles with what sounds too boring, and what sounds too personal.

_The weather is far too humid and hot to be comfortable. I miss winter. My brother has abandoned ship again, and I imagine I won't see him until school rolls around. My mum is speaking of a vacation when Dad has time off from work, but I might send them off on their own and enjoy the silence of a big, empty house. _

_We aren't even halfway through summer, and I already miss school. I would have thought I'd be dreading going back, but now it cannot come quickly enough._

He contemplates adding in that they ought to meet up and do something, but he hasn't a clue what they'd do or why, and decides to see if Snape even bothers to write back. Assuming the letter reaches him. Regulus again has no address to use, only a very vague idea. He sends it off with another of the family's owls.

The next week, Snape writes back:

_Given that it is the middle of summer, 'hot and humid' would be an apt (and unsurprising) description. Enjoy the silence while it lasts, because it never does. I haven't an opinion on school; one place is the same as the next. _

_You're better off without your idiot brother._

_Sincerely,_

_SS_

It's short and curt, but it's something, and something is always better than nothing. He and Snape write back and forth for the remainder of the summer.

He writes Sirius twenty-two more times.

Every letter returns unopened.


	7. part 7: the look

"I wrote you," Regulus says when he sees Sirius unboarding the train. He has only a minute before they're shuffled their separate ways into their respective houses, but he'll make the most of it. He didn't dare try to approach him on the train where he'd undoubtedly be surrounded.

Sirius has grown an inch or two over the summer, but so has Regulus so the height difference isn't too jarring. Sirius ruffles his hair as though he hasn't spent his entire summer away."Did you? Didn't get a one."

"I know. The owls brought them back."

"Well, our owls were always a bit dim. Where'd you send them to?"

"I didn't have an address," Regulus admits. "Just addressed them to Potter's neighborhood."

"That would do it, then." Sirius is already looking away, around, in search of where his friends have gone off to. "I was only there a few days. I went on holiday to Italy with the Potters—bloody gorgeous place, by the by—then I spent a couple weeks at Peter's place with him and Remus."

A sharp pang of annoyance wears at Regulus' insides. Here he thought Sirius would've been missing home, missing _him, _at least a little, but instead he was off traveling other countries and house-hopping. He's annoyed, hurt, but he isn't surprised. "..."

"Your snaky prefect is rounding up your lot," Sirius says. Before he turns away for good, his expression softens the slightest bit, and he nudges Regulus' chin up with a finger so their eyes meet. "And I'm sorry, baby brother. I know we were supposed to do things this summer. I'll make it up to you, right?"

Regulus wishes he could take that at face value, and maybe he would if he thought Sirius _meant it_. Making it up to him would involve a level of care Sirius doesn't seem to possess where his friends are involved, or the ability to note get into a row with Mum every time they're at home more than a day. It would require Sirius to remember that, once upon a time, _he _was the important person in Sirius' life. His brother turns away and vanishes into the crowd where Pettigrew and Potter jump on him with laughs and smiles not a moment later. Lupin stands aside with a funny smile on his face that Regulus doesn't like but can't decipher, until Avery's shoulder is slamming into his and distracting his attention elsewhere.

"Welcome back, Black. Going to stand there all day pining after Gryffindors?"

Regulus couldn't care less about responding to him. But when he turns he spots Snape in the crowd, battered suitcase at his side, and he realizes Snape isn't just waiting there but waiting for _him_, so he tries to forget about being abandoned all summer and Sirius saying things he doesn't mean, and rushes to catch up.

#

All of Snape's text books are worn to the brink of being in shambles. The spines are cracked and frayed, the embossed lettering on the front nearly illegible, and the pages are yellowed at the edges, nearly falling out.

Snape handles them with care as he moves them from his suitcase to his trunk, and Regulus watches with an odd sense of envy that anyone could be so delicate with something so fragile, and he wishes Sirius knew how to be that gentle.

#

The first Quidditch practice of the year is always the hardest, Rosier says, because it's so bloody _cold_ outside and no one is used to getting up this early. But he's there, rubbing his tired eyes and muttering about tea and breakfast they are undoubtedly going to miss, along with the rest of the team. Regulus is the only one wide awake despite not sleeping much the night before, because he's failed this once and he won't fail it again.

When Regulus lands his broom a few feet away and holds out the Snitch, bright-eyed and smiling, Rosier shakes his head and laughs, clapping him on the back.

"Congratulations, Black. I think this makes you the youngest Seeker we've ever had."

#

His bones ache. He practiced flying every chance he got last school year, but being home all summer was not unlike shoving a bird into a cage and expecting it to fly just fine when it finally escaped. He remembers _how_, but his muscles are no longer used to it and he's paying for his first official practice with bruises and strains in muscles he didn't know he had.

But he did it. He did it, and now Sirius will come to _his _games and cheer for _him_ instead of _Potter, Potter, Potter_.

He heads straight to the Gryffindor common room, where the portrait gives him a skeptical look and says in an offendingly accusing tone, "Slytherin!" and Regulus gives a patient frown.

"I'm only looking for my brother. Sirius Black?"

The woman in the portrait sniffs. "Not here, 'm afraid. Go on, shoo."

Regulus considers leaving a note, but no, he wants to tell Sirius to his face. Wants to see his expression light up and hear how _proud_ he is. He's about to leave when he spots Sirius and Lupin ascending the steps.

They're oblivious to his presence, which is why Regulus is able to see _the look_.

It's a subtle thing, _the look_, something he wonders has been there all along and he failed to notice. It's in the way Lupin lingers so close to Sirius, like he wants to touch him but doesn't dare, like he lives for the moments where their steps have their shoulders and arms brushing. It's in the curve of his mouth and the fleeting glances as his eyes dart to Sirius' face. Regulus recognizes it because it's the way girls look at Sirius and he's always hated it when they do, and he hates it even more when Lupin does it because Sirius almost, _almost_ looks like he's doing it _back_.

The look is gone the second Lupin spots him. He straightens up, having the grace to look embarrassed as though caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Regulus," he says, which makes Sirius go 'hm?' before turning his attention straight ahead. They stop at the very top of the stairs. Regulus crosses his arms and tells himself whatever he just saw was only his imagination, a result of exhaustion, perhaps.

"You're looking at the new Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team."

Sirius blinks slowly while that bit of information sinks in. "Really."

"That's brilliant, Regulus!" Lupin says, with all the excitement in his face Regulus wanted from his _Sirius_, not some mudblood who was just making eyes at his brother. "Truly brilliant! Normally no one makes the team this early on, especially Seeker."

Regulus doesn't look away from Sirius, waiting for a similar reaction, perhaps for Lupin's words to spark realization that what he's done is, yes, pretty brilliant for someone his age.

After a moment, Sirius _does_ grin. He steps forward and collects Regulus into his arms, squeezing him tight, and Regulus wants to cling to him and never let go and suddenly he doesn't remember how to breathe or think beyond _Sirius_. He forgets himself long enough that his hands curl against Sirius' back, fisting in the fabric of his robes. He'll hug him tight and try to make his heart stop racing because it's the first time Sirius has hugged him in over a year.

And he'll try not to be hurt when Sirius grins against his hair and says, "Mum's going to be _so_ hacked off."


	8. part 8: the shouting

All things considered, Regulus handles his mother's anger with as much dignity as one can muster in the face of certain doom. Maybe he shouldn't have waited until the holidays to tell her about Quidditch, or maybe he shouldn't have thought to do it face-to-face, but it beat the alternative—which was to write home about it, and risk receiving a Howler at school.

"_Quidditch,_" she says, like it's a bad word her son shouldn't dare say. Regulus thinks she never cared _that _much about it before, but now that it's interfered with what she deems as Proper and Appropriate Behavior for a Black, of course Quidditch would be akin to swearing at the dinner table.

Regulus pokes at the potatoes on his plate. Sitting across from him, Sirius chews. Noisily. "It hasn't affected my grades any," he mumbles, more at his food than anything else. "I've made some new friends on the team." It's a lie that Sirius snorts at; Regulus glares at him.

"I don't care," Mum says hotly. "I will not have my son gallivanting around on a broomstick like an idiot. If you have so much free time available at school, then we'll find you an appropriate extracurricular activity."

_But I like Quidditch_, he wants to protest. _People acknowledge me now, _which translates to _Sirius comes to my games and I don't want to lose that_. But he doesn't know how to argue, because what Walburga Black says, goes, or else there is no peace and Regulus doesn't fancy spending his winter holiday locked in the attic for displeasing her.

"Lay off him, Mum," Sirius says around a mouthful of food. Which is a ridiculous habit he's formed and only executes when he's at home because it drives their mother up the wall. At school, he still eats with all the table manners that were engrained into him as a child. "He wants to play Quidditch, let him play Quidditch. He's not hurting anyone."

Mum's face turns that funny shade of red it only ever turns when Sirius has spoken up. Her fork hits the edge of her plate with a resounding _clink_. "This has nothing to do with you, Sirius."

"Sure it does." Sirius looks up and meets her gaze steadily. "You aren't even there. You wouldn't have known if he hadn't been stupidly honest and told you. I, for one, think it's good for Regulus."

"Because you would know what's good for your brother," Mum snaps. "If Regulus followed everything _you _though was good for him, he'd spend every holiday away from home and have been placed in Gryffindor. You will keep your nose out of this, Sirius Black, or so help me..."

"So help you...what?" Sirius' mouth twists up into a wry smile. "You'll toss me in the closet for the night? Pull me over your knee? News for you, Mum, we aren't toddlers anymore and your scare tactics are just that."

Regulus doesn't take his eyes off his plate. Jubilant, on one hand, because Sirius _stuck up for him_, and on the other, sick to his stomach because these are the arguments that define their lives now: these are the arguments that make Sirius go away. "Sirius, Mum, it's really not—"

"Shut up, Regulus," they bark in unison, before they're sniping at each other again. Regulus wonders how much this has to do with him anymore or whether it's the principle of the thing, that Sirius is challenging Mum's hold on her youngest son.

He shoves his chair back, a scraping of wood on wood, shoving at the table as he goes so the flatware rattles violently and his brother and mother don't even look up as he leaves the kitchen and hides in his room.

#

"Master Regulus' robes," Kreacher says, placing the washed, folded garments at the foot of Regulus' bed. Regulus murmurs a thank you from where he's leaned over his desk, scribbling a letter to Snape that will not be sent. Too much said in the heat of the moment, too much anger in words, too much _him _spilled onto the parchment that no one should see.

Kreacher rubs his bony hands together, lingering but not speaking. Regulus finally sighs and places his quill aside. "What can I do for you, Kreacher?"

The house elf ventures forward, all craggy-lines in his face and old, tired eyes. "Kreacher needs nothing. He is only worried for Master Regulus. So unhappy, he has been."

Regulus crumples the parchment up, holding it tight in his hands. "How can anyone be happy with all that constant shouting? This house has become a prison." For Sirius, and for him. He pitches the balled up paper into the waste basket.

Kreacher begins to say something further when someone raps lightly on the bedroom door, followed by Sirius' voice: "Regulus?"

He tenses. "Come in."

Sirius steps inside, and for a moment he and Kreacher stare at one another before Sirius grins, shark-like, and says, "Get lost." Kreacher mutters dark and low under his breath, but skulks out, shutting the door behind him.

Regulus frowns. "You shouldn't be so cruel to him. You and Mum both..."

"He shouldn't be such a creepy little git, then." Sirius sprawls out across Regulus' bed, boneless and relaxed, like he hasn't a care in the world. Regulus tries not to stare at him, because letting his eyes trace over the curve of Sirius' jaw, the line of his exposed throat, or at the slight bit of his stomach where his shirt is hiked up, makes him feel warm and awkward all over. Instead, he stares down at the blank parchment on his desk.

"I didn't think you'd stick around," he murmurs.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You never do when the two of you fight."

He can feel Sirius watching him, scrutinizing. "If I left...would you come with me?"

Regulus' spine straightens. "And go where?"

"I don't know. Wherever. The Potters'. They've always told me I'm welcome to have you along."

The strongest urge to grab up all his loose sheets of parchment and throw them at Sirius almost overtakes him. He bites it back. "In that case, no."

Sirius sits up. "And why not? They're good people."

"They're _your _people," Regulus says tightly. "Why in the world would I leave home to sit around some stranger's house and be ignored by you? I get that enough at school."

"We aren't children anymore, Regulus." Sirius swings his legs off the bed, leaning forward. His fingers brush Regulus' shoulder, curl into the fabric of his shirt, and without warning he yanks, drawing Regulus out of his chair and onto the bed beside him. "Just because I have mates I spend my time with doesn't mean anything. We have different friends, different circles."

Regulus, despite letting himself be dragged closer, refuses to look at him. "So what? It's only that way because you _made_ it that way."

"It's how it has to be." This time, Sirius' voice is strained. Regulus glances at him, but only briefly.

"Why?"

"It just—damn it all, Regulus. Can't you just listen to me without being difficult?"

Regulus lurches to his feet, twisting around to point at him. "_Me_? You ignore me all school year. You abandon me every chance you get at home with nothing more than a 'Sorry, I'll make it up to you,'—which you haven't bothered doing yet, by the way—and you keep with your friends and pretend you don't have a brother who bloody well _misses you_ sometimes and I just...I just..." His chest heaves with the effort of breathing, because it shouldn't _be_ like this, and when did being near Sirius become so painful?

Sirius grabs his outstretched hand and yanks him forward with enough force that Regulus stumbles, has to catch himself with a hand on Sirius' shoulder, straddling one of Sirius' legs with his knee on the mattress and his other foot planted firmly on the floor. More importantly than that, they're suddenly very, _very_ close and when Regulus looks down and Sirius looks up, their faces are only a few inches apart.

Heat rushes to every inch of his body, makes it hard to think beyond the fact Sirius's long fingers are wrapped around his small wrist, and his other arm creeps about Regulus' waist. It's a sharp reminder how much Sirius has grown up and left Regulus behind in that, too. His shoulders are broader, his arms stronger and his hair longer than Mum ever let it get when they were younger. Even his face is sharper, more defined, no longer rounded with baby fat. And he's pressing that handsome face into the curve of Regulus' throat, breathing in deep.

"You're still just a kid. You can't understand."

"I would," he rasps, cursing his voice for coming across so broken and childlike. "If you explained it to me."

Sirius' silent laughter is a brush of warm air that makes Regulus' skin prickle. A shiver slithers down his spine.

"No," Sirius rumbles. His tongue darts out, just the tip of it against Regulus' pulse point, brief but warm and wet and it makes Regulus freeze because he isn't sure what his brother is doing, or why it makes his face burn and his breath catch, and he can't seem to find his voice long enough to ask.

Then Sirius is releasing him all at once, and the sudden abandonment drags a whimper from Regulus' throat. Sirius takes a deep breath, head hanging, messy dark hair obscuring his face so Regulus can't make heads nor tails of his expression, but—

"You won't get it," Sirius manages quietly. He pushes to his feet. "And I'm sorry for that."


End file.
